


Hallucinations are not good for your health

by dino76



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Family, Gen, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dino76/pseuds/dino76
Summary: A missing scene for Episode 6:After Malcolm burns his hand on purpose, Jessica is concerned.Warning: story contains the corporal punishment of an adult! Don't read it if that's not your cup of tea.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Hallucinations are not good for your health

Malcolm was tired. No, not just tired, absolutely weary. Exhausted, almost to the point of passing out. But therein lay the whole problem – _almost_ to the point of passing out. Passing out would actually be a welcome relief. But of course his treacherous brain would not allow that. It would be way too easy. No, instead of delightful unconsciousness allowing him a few hours of uninterrupted rest, his body jerked awake with flashbacks of his childhood as soon as he drifted off to sleep. And caught between a rock and a hard place he had come to the conclusion that exhaustion was easier to deal with than nightmares.

Keeping his mind busy and active helped to stave off the tiredness – to a degree. But he knew that he had been running on empty for some time now and he _needed_ to rest. Coupled with anger and exasperation about Ainsley’s insane idea of interviewing their father and his anxiety about approaching his mother with the photo he found, he was a mental wreck. There was definitely no sugar-coating that. And worst of all, his mother seemed to see it too.

He really couldn’t deal with her worry on top of everything else.

Ainsley had left in a temper, which made him the sole focus of Jessica’s attention. And if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was his mother’s scrutiny. He had somehow managed dinner. Even getting away with mostly pushing around the food on his plate instead of actually eating it.

Now, as his mother accompanied him to the door, he was gathering his courage to bring up the photo that had starred in his most recent nightmares.

“Still worrying about your sister?” Jessica asked. “Don’t. I’m friends with the chairman of her network. It’ll only take a phone call.”

“It’s not that,” he replied, stepping around to face her.

“What, then?” She gave him that worried look that immediately made him feel worse. “Still lost in your past?”

Malcolm sighed, and replied, “Oh, you know what they say: those who can’t remember the past are condemned.” His attempt at levity fell miles short though.

“That’s not quite the expression, dear,” Jessica said with a wry smile.

“Close enough.” Before he lost his nerve again, he quickly reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and took out the picture that had been burning a hole in his chest for the duration of dinner. He took another deep breath, before asking, “Does this photo mean anything to you?”

Jessica took the picture with both hands, studying it for a moment.

“What is that hideous car? And where are you both?” she asked, confusion clear on her face, and Malcolm immediately knew that she wasn’t acting. Disappointed, he felt the strain and worry about her reaction fall away and immediately exhaustion took an even greater hold of him.

“This was taken the week before Dad was arrested,” he explained.

“If I recall,” Jessica started, finally looking up at him with a sigh. “I had gone with Ainsley to the Hamptons, you were still in school, and Martin was busy at work, so he said.” She returned her attention to the photo in her hands. “Makes sense, though. He _loved_ to camp. All the special clothes and equipment. Made him giddy as a schoolboy.” With another sigh she drew her attention away from the photograph and handed it back.

Malcolm stared at the photo for another moment, disappointed that she couldn’t give him the answers he was looking for, as his mother grasped both of his elbows.

“Let me call Adolpho to take you home.” He gave her a small nod. A ride in his mother’s car sounded a lot better than taking a cab in his exhausted state. He had hoped for a bit more information from her, but he was sure that she really didn’t know where Martin had taken him.

He slipped the picture back into his pocket, turning away slightly, when all of a sudden he heard his father’s voice.

“Come on, what’s with the long face?”

He turned back and there in the doorway where his mother had just vanished, his father stood. But it wasn’t Martin as he looked today. It was a younger version. Much younger.

“Dad?” he said, breath trembling slightly. “Wh-what is this?” He immediately knew that it wasn’t real – that his mind was somehow playing tricks on him again.

“Don’t be so worried,” Martin said. “We’re gonna have a guy’s weekend. I got us a car. The perfect camp.” Mind and pulse racing he could only stare at his father in shock. “And mother doesn’t have to know. It’ll be our little secret.”

He turned his head away, panting; breath rattling through his mouth, as he noticed the candle on the table next to him. He knew he wasn’t far from a panic attack, and that he needed to get rid of this hallucination. It wasn’t real. _It couldn’t be real!_

“This isn’t real,” he whispered just to hear himself talk, and held his hand over the small flame. Pain was a marvellous thing if used correctly. It could force the mind back to the present quiet efficiently and he knew that. “This isn’t real.”

He turned his head back to his father, as his palm started to tingle from the heat. He could already see the vision slipping away, his father’s voice echoing faintly through his head.

“Sound fun? Sound fun? Sound fun?” kept repeating in his head, but the voice drifted further away and his father’s shape started flickering like an old TV screen.

The pain in his hand was unpleasant but bearable, so he kept his hand above the candle. Until all of a sudden, he realised that the heat wasn’t solely centred on the small spot at the palm of his hand. He whirled around, only to see that the sleeve of his suit jacket had caught on fire! He waved his arm around frantically, grunting, and then tore off his jacket, flinging it to the ground and stomping on it.

“Malcolm! Oh my God!” His mother rushed back into the room, high heels clicking on hardwood floor. He checked his hand and arm for further damage, but thankfully his shirt sleeve had remained unharmed. A small burn on the inside of his hand the only proof of his self-mutilation. “Are you all right?”

He waved his hand in front of him, keeping her at a distance. He needed a moment to get his bearings before he could deal with her worry and comfort.

“I’m good!” he said quickly. Her gaze dropped to his ruined jacket on the floor before settling on him again, worry clear on her face. “It’s, uh, you don’t have to worry. I’m – I’m good,” he repeated for good measure, still holding his hands out towards her. The words weren’t enough to convince himself and he was under no illusion that they would fool her. His eyes darted to the doorway, but thankfully his father had disappeared.

He was still panting, trying to catch his breath and still his racing heart, when his mother grabbed his wrist, turning his hand and pulling it towards herself. He stumbled forward slightly with the force of her tugging.

“You’re hurt,” she said, inspecting his palm. “How…?” Her gaze snapped up to his face, worry morphing into anger quickly and Malcolm instinctively tried to step back, to get out of her reach, but the iron grip around his wrist prevented it. “That wasn’t an accident.” The tone of her voice plainly said that it wasn’t a question.

“What? – No…” he tried anyway, again unsuccessfully tugging at his arm.

“Don’t lie to me, Malcolm.” Her eyes flashed and he swallowed thickly, the racing of his heart suddenly caused by something completely different than the hallucination of his father. A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the food he didn’t actually eat only an hour ago. “How did this happen?” Jessica asked, pointing at his hand without the slightest inclination to let go.

“It was nothing, Mother,” he said. “I’m good. It-”

“Did I ask for baseless reassurances?” she interrupted, and he flinched at her sharp tone. It had been a few years since she’d used that particular tone of voice with him, but apparently it still had the same effect.

“Dad was in my head,” he explained quickly, cursing her for making him feel young and nervous again. “And that was the quickest way to get rid of him.”

Jessica was quiet for a long moment – a long _uncomfortable_ moment – where he had nothing else to do but study his mother’s face or run through a list of her possible reactions. Neither an option that was very appealing. All the while feeling incredibly stupid with his wrist still firmly clasped in her hand and nowhere to go.

“You have hallucinations?” she finally asked.

“I… yes,” he admitted, forcing his other hand into a fist to stop the nervous tremors.

“Your sleep-deprivation has gotten so bad that you’re hallucinating? – Malcolm,” she said with a click of her tongue. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not that bad,” he tried half-heartedly, then cringed and averted his gaze as she raised her eyebrows at him.

“And now you’re hurting yourself on purpose?” she asked, somehow managing to sound both exasperated and worried at the same time. She finally let go off his wrist and he glanced at her face, not at all reassured by what he saw. The crossed arms and determined expression indicated a very gloomy future for him. “Strip.”

He blinked slowly, mouth dropping open in shock, fairly certain that he must have misheard.

“Wh-what?” he finally forced out, seriously considering to burn himself again in case he hadn't completely snapped out of his hallucination.

“Undress,” his mother said, snapping her fingers at him impatiently. He cautiously took a step back, face heating up at the mere thought of stripping in front of his mother. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake!

The no-nonsense expression on Jessica’s face didn’t falter though.

“I’m thirty years old, Mother,” he said carefully. “I’m not stripping in front of you.”

“I know how old you are, Malcolm. I was there when you were born,” she replied. “And there’s nothing that I haven’t seen before. _Undress_.”

“But why?” he asked uncertainly.

“I want to make sure this self-harming isn’t already an established new habit,” she replied matter-of-factly, fingers snapping again.

“It isn’t!” he told her quickly. “I’m telling you it’s not something I’ve done before!”

“You tell me a lot of things,” Jessica replied, unaffected. “While at the same time you’re usually very vague on important information.” Well, he couldn’t really contradict her on that, now, you could he?

“But I’m telling you, there’s nothing to see!” he said anyway, louder this time, in case she hadn't heard him the first time, and made a memorable effort to supress the mounting anger.

“And I will be the judge of that.”

“This is ridiculous!” he muttered. “Mother, I am not undressing.” She didn’t even dignify his very reasonable demand with a reply. She merely stepped right into his personal space and to his utter mortification pulled his tie knot loose. It all happened so quickly that she had already discarded it and was unbuttoning his shirt before he realised what was happening and hastily stepped back and slapped her hands away none too gently.

It was the wrong thing to do. Oh so very, very wrong.

Her mouth morphed into a thin line, and with a sharp tug on his arm, she all but yanked him back. His head-first stumble into her was only averted because she somehow managed to redirect his momentum sideways. He still hadn't quite caught his footing when a sharp pain spread across his left butt cheek. He jerked forward violently, head snapping around and he could only stare open-mouthed at her as her hand descended in another powerful slap right across his backside.

“Mom!” he yelled, mortified, hips flinching away again. He immediately tried to twist his butt out of the line of fire by angling it away from her – without success though. A third slap landed equally as hard and equally as stinging, before he was whirled around again.

“You will undress and let me inspect your body, or so help me, I will do it myself,” she threatened darkly. If ever asked he would deny vehemently that he almost tripped to do her bidding, but at this moment it was the only sensible thing to do. He didn’t doubt for even one second that she would make good on her threat.

Standing almost naked in front of his mother brought a whole new meaning to the word “embarrassment” though. And if he thought that it couldn’t possibly get any worse, he had certainly sold his mother short. Instead of being satisfied with his compliance and collect her winnings, she actually lifted his arms one at a time, and turned him around to inspect every inch of skin on his body.

If his face ever regained its natural colour, he should certainly count his blessings.

“Do I need to check there too?” she asked, as she had made him turn a full circle, gesturing towards his briefs.

And here he had thought that his face couldn’t grow any hotter!

“God, no!” he said with a shudder. “I promise there are no marks on my body – except the ones you just put there.”

“Good,” she replied, taking another uncomfortably long moment to scrutinize him. He self-consciously crossed his arms in front of his body. “You’re too thin,” she finally stated. “And you need sleep.”

It took him considerable willpower to supress the _“well, duh”_ that was already at the tip of his tongue, but he really didn’t want to get smacked again. And right now he didn’t trust that his mother wouldn’t do just that.

“Get upstairs and to bed,” she ordered. “I’ll be there shortly to check your hand again.”

“I really want to go home, Mother,” he replied.

“Malcolm, I have a hairbrush with your name on it. Do you really want to push me?”

He did not. He remembered that hairbrush and as far as he knew it had never been used for brushing anyone’s hair. Throwing another dark look at his mother – that she didn’t acknowledge in the slightest – he gathered his clothes and stomped up the stairs to his old room.


End file.
